BBCSH 'Wall'
by tigersilver
Summary: A drabbly, meandering tale of Sherlock's curious explorations of his 'areas'. With eventual physical result.
1. Chapter 1

**BBCSH 'Wall' [Unrated as of yet] Drabble-WIP **

**tigersilver**

BBCSH "Wall'

A 'five things' thing. _Plus one_, as that's how you do. Ongoing, I would think.

I.

The usual thing Sherlock does when he has a case of interest is to create a web. He's a graphic thinker, absolutely, and it helps him focus when he has images and data and actual thread (he likes yarn, more; sturdy and thick, he can tape or pin items to yarn while he's still debating where they'll go in the end-mosaic) to tie it all together. For the issue (question, quandary or puzzle) of John H. Watson, ex-Army, now-locum doctor, assistant and blogger, he begins simply, with a photo of John and his sister (there's always something) he filches from John's one last never fully unpacked moving box. It's a start of the best sort: there's many a clue to be mined from the image. The origin of the oatmeal jumper (Harry gave it to him; the photo records the giving); the approximate location of John's childhood home (Sussex; he recognizes the scenery on the outskirts of Brighton; he and his family had visited the area when he was a young boy). A map of Brighton and surrounds is placed next to the photo, with likely locations drawn on is red ink. Then there's John's state of mind ten plus years ago (cheery and open and his hair had no intriguing grey in the blond); John's younger face, creased even then with laugh lines and also a premonition of the faint frown he now always carries, as much a badge as the ribboned honours that stay tucked away in the unpacked box.

In the photo, Harry is healthy, clear-eyed and also laughing. There's a ring on her finger that's bright and shiny but Clara's not in evidence. Likely she took the picture, then.

John's parents seem nowhere about—there are no photos of them in John's things anywhere—but that only leaves the question begging. Sherlock has been working on that part of it for some time now, without much success. John Watson's a close-mouthed bugger when he chooses to be.

He employs his bedroom wall for the John-web, the largest area of plaster being given over to the current criminal case for DI Lestrade and also to Moriarity's doings, as he reveals them. John's particular smaller web is to be found centred over his bed, directly above his headboard, and he has to stand upon the mattress, bouncing a bit on his heels, or sometimes balance upon his kneecaps to reach it. The positions he contorts himself into to place his growing stock of evidence, especially the second, and the fact that it's _his _bed—a very fine and private place—lend a certain prurient air to his evidence gathering and mapping of same. It's a secret from John; his bedroom door is always closed, usually locked, and only Mrs Hudson sometimes enters his sanctum, especially when she's playing their 'not-housekeeper'. John never does and Sherlock has never once had the temerity to invite him. This could be because he wonders what John would think, Sherlock having John's life and photo over the place where Sherlock sleeps and wanks (very occasionally, but yes. He_ is_ human.) It could also be because the room itself would send his tidy John into a frothing conniption. Why incite domestic disturbance when there is no need? There's always enough of a to-do over the kitchen.

The third distinct part of the wall is a collection of mobile numbers, all scoured from John's discarded laundry, his rubbish bin by his desk and his coat. There are fifteen or twenty of them, the majority for females, though two are for men. Of these, John has made additional contact with ten, dated eight and shagged three, his current employer Sarah included. Also included is one of the men, a Sidney Howard. Mr. Howard is of particular interest, Sarah not so much, as she and John are no longer an item by the time Sherlock really begins to assemble his map. Or rather, wall. Wall of Watson, he terms it in his head, and smiles mysteriously at the fancy, much to his flatmate's occasional annoyance.

Mister-Doctor, actually—Sidney Ventrescu Howard is also at St. Bart's, specializing in pediatrics, and he's a tall, dark-haired, intelligent and erudite man. He's an acquaintance of Mike's and all evidence indicates that John has fancied him, much as he may—or may not—have fancied Sherlock at the start of their acquaintance. John has never mentioned Dr. Howard to Sherlock, not once, and Sherlock has not dared to ask.

Too, there are bits and pieces gleaned from all the cases John has assisted in next, set off to one side and pinned to the wall with whatever will affix them: a scrap of pink fabric, a can and several smears of yellow spray paint, ginger hairs in a plastic bag, rubbish from a skip, a scrap of spent Semtax, a spent shell casing and so on. They make a semi-colourful blotch on the pale wall and Sherlock considers that to be a most brilliant metaphor. His life with John is certainly brighter and more shocking visually than John's life would've been alone, invalided out.

His life, as well, naturally. He is in constant need of his blogger. He assumes John has finally realized that.

Watson's personal effects and accoutrements are next. 'Lost' buttons, the tail-end of a nearly empty can of shaving gel, fingernail clippings rescued from the lav's bin. Wool from jersies (John owns eighteen of them, an excessive number, and some suit him more than others), snippets gleaned from the inner hems of his rugby shirts (three, in differing stripes and colours), his collection of trousers (seven pairs altogether, including several sets of denims), bits of rubber form the tread of his shoes (trainers, work boots and dress loafers), and lastly, a pair of dirty pants Sherlock found stuffed beneath John's mattress one day when John was at work.

These last are stiff with dried lube and sperm. Regular cotton boxers in an innocuous tartan, they are faintly odiferous still and Sherlock really needs to know why it was that John stashed them away, so thoroughly even he couldn't find them after…or rather, that he never bothered to dig them out and finally launder them. John is careful with his clothes; this is a minor mystery. The hand towel that accompanied that particular session of nightmare-turned-to-post-stress-wanking was to be found in the hamper just as always, though, and John has never indicated anything special about that night, so… Inconclusive. But Sherlock does occasionally like to smell them. He'll gather a subtle whiff in his nostrils and hold it there for as long as he can, just so.

He tells himself there's no shame in doing that without John's knowledge. His only worry is that the odour of John is fading and he might have to encase them in plastic eventually. He'd rather not, on balance.

There are also a multitude of plastic sample baggies, tubes and vials containing used tea bags, one with a dried skin of skim milk (which aids Sherlock's memory when he does the shopping), another rather singular button, stolen from the cuff of John's camo uniform, and various other small and delicate or ephemeral items, too numerous to count. There's rather a lot to the Wall, when he compares it to some of the past webs he's constructed.

Then there are Sherlock's copious notes, scrawled on scraps and pieces of paper found about the flat. They're interspersed freely throughout the yarn that ties the ephemera together.

Of all the items on the Wall, these are the most incriminating for Sherlock. Transcripts of message exchanges dating back to the beginning of the acquaintance, lists of this and that connected to John in some obscure or obvious manner, Sherlock's brilliant (and not-so, always) thoughts and fancies on the ever-unfolding subject and so forth. Lines from poetry, sheet music and his from-memory records of casual conversations, written down for later enlightenment—he doesn't want these visible to John's sharp gaze under any circumstances. This depth of obsession, Sherlock is certain, is more than a bit not good.

While John does love a toothy mystery…often fully explained later, at leisure, when the adrenaline has faded a bit and they give way to matters of transport: food, sleep, laughter, camaraderie; he also detests them on principle. John prefers matters to be clear. It's an essential component of his fascination with Sherlock, that Sherlock can clear away the mess and make it so. If Sherlock teases, John will nag away at him. Or demand answers on the spot, which Sherlock often deigns to provide at the behest of John's terse questioning. But he doesn't like Sherlock lording it over him. Makes him feel small and, by all that's holy, Sherlock has no wish to diminish John or make him feel that way through benign oversight or casual play or even by simply forgetting he's not explained himself. And it _is_ benign. Not all that he feels for John is so, but Sherlock is trying very hard to keep it within bounds he's set himself.

Of all things, he wishes to continue building his web, his Wall of John. He cannot do that as efficaciously if John departs.


	2. Chapter 2

**BBCSH 'Wall' Part 2/? [NC-17] **

**tigersilver**

**Work Text:**

Spoilers to the end of second series.

II.

There's a wall in Sherlock's mind he can't make his way over. Doesn't want to, doesn't care to, most of the time. There are small footholds carved here and there (when he envisualizes it, it looks a bit like Hadrian's) and he's made some progress up, only to fall back at the base in a heap. It's seemingly insurmountable, this wall, for all it's not very high or broad or thick. There are times it's paper-thin and he can literally feel people breathing, moving, _living_ on the other side (like onionskin or waxed paper, he even glimpses them, opaquely). John is, regrettably, one of the ones on the other side of the wall. Not by choice, perhaps, but Sherlock's put him there firmly. For John's safety; for his own.

When he's on his knees on his mattress, swaying as it bobbles, tacking another piece to the web, running yarn, making a note in blue ink on the white plaster, he feels as though the wall could be—might be—with a little help—torn down. One day, not now. Maybe it will crumble?

Sometimes he tosses a trowel or a random pickaxe over, hoping it'll reach his friend. Just to see what happens.

But there are holes already. Sherlock's very curious and even if he can't be there with those on the other side, he very much needs to understand them. He _requires _to observe.

The keyhole in John's bedroom door is one portal through which he can clearly view life on the other side of the wall. Mostly what he witnesses are private moments: John sleeping, John not sleeping, John pleasuring himself, same as Sherlock does occasionally. But far more often, of course.

John's got a decent sized dick for his relative height, he's well-muscled if scarred, his skin looks very touchable limned in the deflected light from the streetlamps. When he breathes through an orgasm, it sounds very wet and inviting. Sherlock sees the tip of his tongue poking out black-red in the dim, glistening, and his lips, dry and parted. He mimics it, silently, having memorized the movements. He can almost repeat word for word whatever it is John calls out when he comes. He sees the twitch and roil of a body active in pleasuring itself and it's rather awesomely inspiring.

When he leaves the keyhole very late in the wee hours before dawn, kneecaps twinging, cramped from hours of not moving, not breathing too loudly, he generally takes a hot shower to relax and regroup. And wanks there, in the lav. John doesn't know, naturally, but that's satisfactory for now. What John doesn't know may not hurt him.

What hurts _Sherlock_ about this exercise is that John will cry out the name of a woman or the name of a man, though the latter less often, but he never so much as mouths Sherlock's name.

The wall always seems most solid and unbreachable at four in the morning. He plays his violin at it with a mad vigour because music, at least, can travel.


	3. Chapter 3

**BBCSH 'Wall' Part 3/6 [NC-17] **

**tigersilver**

**Notes:**

**For ****phoenixacid****.**

**Work Text:**

Very slight spoilers for second series, very slight angst. Much Sherlocking.

III.

John's a sporting man. He must be. There's a coil of rope ladder one day, suddenly, and clear signs that mortar's been chipped away. Or washed away—eroded. Some of the blocks are moved, there's cracks running though the smooth surface like grey mould through Morbier and Sherlock's not as comfortably situated as he used to be.

There's far more extraneous data in his head than he's accustomed to, in addition. He berates himself for his wild fancies now but simultaneously finds them necessary as breathing. Less boring than breathing. More distracting than other…historic distractions.

It's been months and months and there's also just been Moriarity and the pool. After the pool Sherlock was certain his wall within would fall, would collapse upon itself from the sheer weight of its own improbability. He wants to punch a gaping exit straight through it, but that's useless. Pointless. It's now been proved in his mind there _is_ no wall, really. There's nothing left to separate him from the remainder of humanity but the scaffolding of his own arrogance and his own fear. And it _is _fear.

Fear he can taste, fear he can _feel _deep in the jarred bones, contusions, abrasions, mild concussion and miscellany thrown up by taking a sudden swim at high impact.

He has never more clearly experienced the overweening emotion of fear as he had when John wore his familiar old coat and it was crammed to the seams with the instruments of John's highly likely destruction. Fear is solid like the mass of a lead pipe to the stomach, fear is sharp as a blow to the head or a gout of chlorinated water pushed up one's nose. Fear explodes into shrapnel at the slightest tremor and Sherlock is in process of learning to tread very carefully indeed. Not that he's gadding about, what with the persistently broken leg.

If Sherlock believed in hubris, he'd find his shattered femur more darkly amusing than it is. His transport has failed him, and literally. He can't move to patch things up along the ramparts, shore up the ever-widening gaps and fissures in his wall. He can't, truly, do much of anything at all for a period of some eight to ten days, in and out of hospital. He can think, but then he always thinks.

Sherlock thinks that John Watson is above all a very kind man and an excellent doctor of practical medicine. Sherlock thinks John is the most patient of men in the world. Best of all, he allows Sherlock to keep mostly intact the plaything his wall has become. This though he's seen his own particular, especial, revealing lifeweb with his very own eyes; couldn't not, could he? Not when he's been called upon to deal with a slowly recuperating flatmate. So, he's definitely in full cognizance of the obvious fact of the matter, which is to say that Sherlock has John's stolen pants pinned above his head and thinks about John all the time. Has thought of John since Day One and shows no signs of ceasing. Is perhaps a bit unreasonable about it now.

What with the pool.

With every touch of John's hands on Sherlock, healing this and monitoring that, the John-web in his head deepens and thickens. It's a brilliant tangle of words, smells and images—and now touch, quite a lot of hand's-on touch—and Sherlock has become extraordinarily deft at running yarn against the black velvet background of his closed eyelids.

With every touch of John's hand on Sherlock the wall he owns wears away, becomes thinner and thinner. It waves and it ripples, it flaps like Sherlock's hands do when he's speaking of a moderately interesting case. It's morphed to a construction of lace or perhaps cotton webbing and John's aftershave twines its inevitable way through the many minute holes and gaps almost incidentally. His hands plunge through regularly, tearing great rends that don't hurt Sherlock proper in the slightest. He shoulders aside the wall as if it were nothing more than a sheer curtain and leans in his head companionably whenever he deems it needed for Sherlock's sake.

Sherlock has nothing to say against this. Not a sniping remark, not a single 'back-off' glance. If anything, he would wish John could go a little faster in his dismantling project, his invasion. There's an amazing amount of data on the other side and Sherlock desperately wishes to sink his teeth into it. Bite off and chew. Perhaps if he can his web of John Watson may show fewer blank bits and scribbled-out blots. He'd like that outcome to come about, very much.

But it'll have to wait. Sherlock's not yet strong enough to climb, not after falling such a great height into a shocking cold—not so soon removed from being pushed and shoved to his utter limit—being thrown under a lorry, as it were.

And… there's Moriarity.


	4. Chapter 4

**BBCSH 'Wall' Part 4/6 [NC-17] **

**tigersilver**

**Work Text:**

Cats' cradle. Yes, there will be hawt smex...eventually. Let's see how I manage to lead us there, shall we?

IV.

At ten days, Sherlock's up and about the flat, hopping. Has been, with aid of John's old cane.

John, with the corner of his mouth tucked in to hide a peeping smile, tells him he looks exactly like a clipped stork. Or perhaps a barmy heron, stalking frogs. But in any case a silly elongated bird who sways about on one pin and consumes amphibians and beetles. Sherlock, who's found it bracing indeed _not_ to be summarily cut off at the knees by his best mate (who has now daily examined his now dusty lust-filthy pants tacked to the plaster and said nothing—nothing—about it) decides it's more than time to explore, hobbled or no. He scrabbles and clambers up his wall to that end and perches rather breathlessly upon the top, which he discovers is crusty-scabby like day-old bread and quite decidedly spongy beneath, like a wafer-thin slice of that same loaf. The wall, that is. It wobbles precariously beneath him as he walks it, sighting all about him for territories beyond. He looks first to John Watson, of course. Of course.

It's a possibly prophetic fall, the swooping, dizzy despair that nearly takes him tumbling down as he surveys the other side, where people dwell. John—he sees this all at once, as a great revelation—owns a wall as well, just as much as Sherlock does.

It's quite strong in appearance, sturdy and terribly, horribly business-like, no frills or crenellations, but then John doesn't seem to require them. It's constructed of mild sandstone, no mortar, and there's no gaps nor breaks nor gates anywhere along the rounded, curving expanse of it.

Sherlock is monumentally cast down. He could perhaps kick one wall to pieces—his, obviously, as it's sadly deteriorated—but how could he ever manage to break through two?

It's not for nothing he's a practical man beneath all the furbelows of visible, in-one's-face, flaming genius: despair is eminently unhelpful and provides him nothing good or employable. It's not to the purpose to feel sad. He deletes it instantly and gimps determinedly to the familiar divan to think.

Thoughts lead to deeds. Retiring to his bedroom after John leaves for a biscuit-kibbutz with Mrs Hudson, he digs up and examines an old picture of himself Mycroft handed him ages ago, one from university but he looks much the same even now, and then cellotapes it firmly above his headboard, close by the map of Brighton and not far from where John and Harry are caught in time together, laughing with a piss-ugly jersey between them. Next, he runs a length of brilliantly scarlet yarn from Moriarity's icon (a Westwood suit, last spring season, doubtless bespoke and there's a new line of inquiry; brilliant) across the entire perilous length of the room and affixes it directly into the centre of his own matriculation portrait. With cool deliberation the skein is thence unfurled onward to the photo of John. _And_ his sister, but she's not the one peering out from under the yarn-end that all but obscures John's decade-old grin.

There. He can't be much clearer than that, can he?

…Can he?


	5. Chapter 5

**BBCSH 'Wall' Part 5/6 [NC-17] **

**tigersilver**

**Work Text:**

[This is where it becomes squirrly and we diverge into AU-land entirely. Please forgive. If I had the data at hand, likely this would be written entirely differently. If you are looking for canon, please move along, thank you.)

V.

John's reaction to the yarn is purely deadpan. Well…he does grin at it as he ducks his ways through, retrieving his bag after pronouncing Sherlock's minor wounds 'good as they can be'. He also grimaces and advises Sherlock to 'take care, though I know you won't, sod you.'

Sherlock's thrilled to pieces.

Meanwhile he's done his best to discard the superficialities, the accoutrements, the social camouflage and the guises that have always been his bread-and-butter. To discard, one must first describe as much as humanly possible, so one knows what bits to cast away as non-essential…. Or inhumanly possible, were he the freak Sally claims he is. He's not, though. Thanks to John. To wit:

Moriarty, stripped down to skin and bone, is clearly a social climber, possessing a high IQ, is amoral and has a social circle that has impinged upon Sherlock's once upon a time (Carl Powers; geographic locus)—and thus, the Holmes family—from years ago. This indicates he was a near neighbor in the county or possibly even a schoolmate at primary, is likely either older or younger than Sherlock by some years as well, as he's not a peer Sherlock recalls or has record of. Younger, actually—there's a certain air of hero worship to account for and he seems to be only marginally aware of Mycroft, who should logically be far more of target than Sherlock. Social climber (and product of such) because he's very obviously wearing his money on his back; the more established (read Old Guard) families don't bother with that much at all, as they care for their possessions and often keep them in use for ages. High intelligence quotient because geeks tend to gather into certain subsets of their own and nerds run in loose packs 'round the same type of occupations when still considered as children: chess clubs and debating as opposed to rugby, choir, chem and drama as opposed to poly-sci and econ. Science, maths and classical Greek, then. Is likely arising of trade instead of academia, as wealth and clout appear to be Moriarty's yardstick of success and finally—finally, and here's the crux of this, there's a very personal touch to this, so Sherlock has probably somehow affronted Moriarty. In passing, as he's no memory whatsoever of ever meeting him previous the pool. He's more than likely ignored or refused him, possibly even socially or sexually, and Moriarty assuredly cannot abide _that_.

And to wit: John is a wonder, Sherlock is convinced of that. He's sought to catalogue all the many ways in which he finds John intriguing and attractive and he can't even begin without losing his way in charming tangents. It's…rather delightfully pleasant, the process of immersion. As his wall is now a total travesty he's resigned himself prowling freely all about his flatmate's construction, occupying himself with a multitude of details, from counting John's lashes to listing mentally all the many interesting ways in which his hair will tuft up in the mornings and his pants will sag when he scratches at his trim belly.

There's a studied pattern to his process of dual triangulation. With a light hand on the reins—the warp and the weft of his yarns—Sherlock draws it all together, his impressions and his observations, like so, moving from gross generality to fine specifics:

Structures: Wall and web.

_Wall_ in place for quite all of his life. A given and necessary mechanism. Now disintegrating in relation to one singular man.

_Web_ a habit for enforcing order, graphically. Webs upon webs upon webs _over_ time but seldom one that stays before his eyes for any_ length_ of time. Moriarty's collection is sparse and pathetic visually as compared to John's and that's not for lack of physical evidence, either. Statistically, John's more important, then.

Superficialities and Appearances: of eminent significance to _Sherlock_

John's pants are a prize. Sherlock is immensely proud of himself for having possession of them. John's pants are part of _his_ wall and now Sherlock had stolen himself a chunk of it, with John's tacit permission.

Sherlock himself does not wear pants; they ruin the lines of his trousers. In this habit, he is more vulnerable than John, which may go a long way to explaining the state of his wall and one of the primary foci of his Wall of John.

Moriarty's expensive suiting is a shell. He's a beetle shielding himself behind an increasingly thin carapace and one good stomp will squash him. Other measures will be necessary for his hanger's on and associates, though, and to that end Sherlock must take to expose the whole of Moriarty's web.

Sherlock tends to strip people down in layers, forensically, and he has grown so accustomed to only viewing the trees, he sometimes is clobbered by the whole of the forest falling silent on his head.

John is a forest.

Sherlock's beloved coat is a shell, also. His, however, wears like armor and it is much more resistant to bashes and dings.

Sherlock is a_ whole_ person. Whole, whole, whole and entire. It is increasingly clear to him that there is not one part of him that can be separated successfully from another, not one atom that can be truly isolated. He is him, from toes to bollocks to collarbone to cowlicks and curls. His brain, that great engine that drives him, is no more an island archipelago than his cock, which has rather startlingly made itself known again with the advent of John in his life.

All of a piece he may be, but he is not a complete unit, nonetheless. There's a John-shaped area of him that seems to be expanding daily.

The John-shaped piece is nebulous and fuzzy, attuned to John-waves, and it requires an actual John to be fully functional. Like a magnet, it won't work properly without something to attract or repel. Or a torch, requiring batteries…or a—there are far too many examples of symbiots to recount.

Logically, this leaves a fair amount of Sherlock dysfunctional in the purest sense of the word. The John-shaped bits are still Sherlock and without them performing Sherlock cannot perform…not even his brain. If he attempts, it's much the same as attempting to survive without his mitochondria. Can't be done…can't be done.

Sherlock—like Moriarty—is hyper-aware of himself. He is his own first acid test.

Having become aware of this previously unsuspected anomaly of his anatomy, the more he thinks of John, the more all of him wants John. Craves him, needs, desires.

Moriarty shows signs of regarding Sherlock in much the same way as Sherlock regards John. Excepting when he pulls his amour's pigtails, he rips out sections of the tender scalp beneath and delights in it. Sherlock has never once intended to damage John with his ways—indeed, he is most solicitous of John, in all the many ways he knows and all the many ways John teaches by example.

John is himself and remains John, no matter what Sherlock or Moriarty may or could do to him to affect change.

John's wall must come down. At least enough to test Sherlock's hypothesis about magnets and gravity. John's wall must conversely stay up, because Moriarty exists.

Moriarty _must_ be eliminated or neutralized. He's not a control, he's a wild card and his effects are likely to be negative in the both the long and short views. His target is Sherlock but the damage to Sherlock's perimeter as he attacks in days to come (he will attack, no question) will be collateral and will absolutely include John. _And_ Mrs Hudson, and likely Lestrade and any other of Sherlock's acquaintance he can strike, the bastard.

Sherlock …must remain Sherlock, and he must remain wholly so, which means he _must_ be entirely shed of Moriarty, as a healthy man needs to be shed of cancerous cells. Or he will lose the area of him that is John to internal decay and that is not to be borne. He may as well be dead if that worst-possible of scenarios should come to pass.

Having posited Moriarty's likely identity, having charted yet more of his Wall of John (now the Wall of Sherlock-and-John), Sherlock acts. He texts his brother, first thing.

The cast is changed to a walking cast at four weeks post-pool. At six weeks it's a light brace for his ankle and he's been pushing himself through the therapy so he can run nearly as fast as he used to. John appears fully recovered and Mycroft has moved them from 221B to a safe house, far from Baker Street. The entire street's been cleared out by Mycroft's machine, actually, from Mrs Turner and her 'married ones' to a highly gratified Mrs Hudson, now on a government funded holiday. This last at John's insistence and with Sherlock's full agreement. He can't afford to be fussed by John's anxiety over their neighbors and landlady. And John's happy with him, so he's happy, too.

Really, once he's understood it, it's all very simple and easy to manage.

Not that Sherlock's not got a lot of irons in the fire: he and Mycroft, with Anthea's and John's help, have narrowed down the pool of suspects (social climber, Carl Powers, geographic locus of formative years; knew Sherlock in passing or by reputation; nouveau-_riche_ and then richer by criminal design, a several years younger man than Sherlock but same general circles as the Holmes's and so on: education, interests, connections; they all add up) to a shrinking point. There's only one man who really fits, via process of elimination. Once that's been accomplished it's not terribly hard to trace the attendant money and money is Moriarty's lifeblood, the pulse that drives his machine. Their web closes in, a sticky fly paper drawing taut round a struggling beetle.

On the John-front, he's taking advantage of the privacy afforded by house-arrest and a pied a terre in a part of London where no one knows the sight of either of them. They can still go about if they are careful and Sherlock introduces his John to the art of disguises. That's a bit fun.

Still, it's a petri-dish experiment sort, this safe house. A rigorous study, with a very rapid return on chemical results: he and John are thrown together 24/7 and if John's still the same with Sherlock after this long a time spent in this certain way, as in not dilute nor concentrated, then Sherlock—logically—is conclusively just as much as part of John's web as John is part of his. There's no change in composition; they match the control. John. Sherlock. Apart and singly or together, they are—as Sherlock has long been suspecting—quite one and the same material, having already been realigned in polarity from the very start. They…match, dovetail and are mutually mixed.

John's wall is his wall and his wall is John's, then. Sherlock has nothing to fret about. It's really rather romantic, in as far as Sherlock understands the term 'romance'.

It only remains to inform John of all his findings on their interpersonal, interdependent, mutually symbiotic relationship they own between them. And reveal his further extrapolations concerning wholeness of self and 'areas'.

The question is…how?

Sherlock Googles. He Googles porn, specifically. Expert advice is called for. It's been a while.


	6. Chapter 6

Er, uh.

VI. [The _plus one_]

Correction: he Googles _'sex'_.

'Good sex', 'safe sex' (not the same) and 'pleasing a partner' . Followed by 'pleasing a same-sex partner' and 'how to make your man purr'.

The hit list's a mile long and rather terrifying. Even filtred, it wastes three whole days just furtively ingesting, sorting, and then deleting or storing for future reference the images, bytes, blurbs and the remarkably torrid _Cosmo _and _Closer_ articles, much less the glut of possibly extraneous information, products, enhancements and, well, _stuff_.

He absorbs every source from Heloise and Abelard to _Brokeback Mountain_.

In the end he throws up his hands (literally and metaphorically) and sneaks out to the chemist's on the corner quite early in the morning (as soon as they open) and purchases five different sorts of sheath and every type of lube they have in stock. Also hand crème, as they have it, and his thumb's chafing and growing calloused, what with rubbing another out every little while in torrid anticipation.

He's been on edge for ages. Likely he'll go mad soon. He's also learnt that words like 'turgid' , 'thrust' and 'swivel' have meanings other than crime-related.

And John. John's so fucking _John_ it's likely to drive him to distraction. He loves it, he hates it. John had certainly better appreciate his deductions.

…If he can't dazzle John, there where is he?

He can't think that John's going to accept this with equanimity, no matter how bloody obvious it is. He feels the necessity to create a 'situation'; it behooves him to practise his lines:

"Ah, John. There you are, then. Would you care to shag?"

No good. (The flat's a disaster, all taupe and soulless. John's missing 221B and so is he, fiercely.) This is not a careless order he's issuing. Nor a request. It's more a plea. Or an offer. P'raps a foregone conclusion?

"John, it's transparently clear that we are—we are—we are…important to one another. In interest of cementing our mutually shared walls to create a more indestructible fortress, may I shag you silly, till you shout? Or _I_ do?"

(It's that one more step, that final one, the words (John will _need_ words, damn him) and he can't for the life of him sort how he'll manage. Bluster?)

"John, I am working my fingers to the bone to remove Moriarty from our lives, as you know. Would you kindly help me toward that end by inserting your cock in my arse? On a regular basis, thanks. I assure you it would be very encouraging. I'd be inspired."

"Even though we share same soap, John, the same deodorant and the same shampoo, for some reason the smell of them on you is a fucking trigger for all the brute animal in _me_. I'm going bloody rabid; no, I've gone. Put me out of my misery, mate?"

_So_ not good. _Pathetic_.

Try again:

"John, clearly when Moriarty spoke of' burning out my heart' he referred to _you_. Not arguing with it. No, I'm handing it over, alright? May I have a receipt, please? Bit...in kind, thanks; it's a barter, of course—I'll take your body, in my bed. No—everything. I want it _all_."

More pathetic, if possible. Also…awkward.

"John. John, I can't show you all the proof I've collected right this moment, but you are my…my everything. And I'm yours, because you wouldn't still be here with me—not murdering me in my sleep—if you weren't, so. _So_. Let's just have at it? The suspense is what's murdering me, John. It's criminal, the way you tease. Fucking frothing here. Please just have mercy, won't you?"

Oh, god. That won't do, either.

Fine. Show evidence, then. Lay it out, the way he always does: organized.

He piles his purchases on John's counterpane (blunt proof he's sincere; means to an end) and dons his satin dressing gown (invitation; familiar…sexy?). Lays there next to them (Exhibit A) while John is in the shower (available, already naked; sensitized?) and proceeds to bite his bottom lip to shreds for ten eternal minutes.

"What's this, then?" John asks, entering steamy and clad in a towel, one eyebrow seal-dark with water and cocked inquiringly, and Sherlock smiles. Grins like a capuchin monkey and hopes against hope he's got all his threads knotted correctly.

"You never knew your parents, did you?" he asks, in a throwaway voice. "That's why there's nothing. I long suspected."

"No," John replies after a short pause. "I'm an…orphan, actually." He eyes Sherlock obliquely, rubbing his short fair hair with a hand towel. "And?" The unspoken 'What's it to you?' is very clear.

"I…" Sherlock swallows, "wondered. That's all." He blinks slowly at John, as if he were a cat and John a likely playfellow. "Come here," he invites, and pats the mattress he reclines on. Clears his throat when John doesn't budge. "Because you didn't say."

"They were killed in a lorry accident when I was a baby. Harry and I went to my father's brother's family." John shrugs, as if this is nothing. "They raised us; it was fine. That's it. Er…does it matter?"

He flaps a mellow hand at Sherlock, still bland and calm of expression as he takes in all the unmistakable invitation Sherlock's laid out for him, like a picnic, on his bed.

"…No," Sherlock dips his chin to his bared breastbone and shifts his hips suggestively. He lays a caressing palm across the stretch of satin over his own dick. Which is half-'turgid'. Oh, dear god. "I like to know, though. In the future, John, you must tell me these things."

"Hmm," John blinks at him. "Alright."

Sherlock is immensely pleased with John—secretly—though his grin might be seventeen degrees dafter now. He's pleased with John for being a trooper about life's brutal knocks from the get-go. _He_ can't imagine a Sherlock without Mummy, Papa and Mycroft, even so, and considering that possibility makes him shiver. He instantly resolves to be all the family John needs from this moment forward.

He's pleased _because_—

"Ah," John hums, nodding and completely unaware he's just been mentally snatched from the Watsons and herded summarily into the Holmeses's holding pens. "You've…ah… decided to study _areas_, Sherlock? That's what this," he nods to the pile, "is about?"

"Well…yes, John," Sherlock refrains from being snide. "And not so much study as…participate?" He waggles his eyebrows meaningfully instead. Waggles his whole body and in particular his hip bones, grinding them down on the wrinkled duvet. "Come?"

John rocks back on his bare heels and releases the towel, licking his lips. Water droplets stray down his chest and flanks in a very aesthetic manner. Sherlock notes _he's _salivating freshets but John's the one swallowing so often his throat bobs. Then he does that thing with the slight neck roll and the unconscious jaw-tightening, the tell that always indicates he's prepping for a bold leap into action—and really rather chuffed to be doing so.

Sherlock's on bloody _fire_.

"Right," his John says. "Er, mnh. _Coming_."

(TBC, naturally.)


	7. Chapter 7

Top of Form

**BBCSH 'Wall' 7/6 [NC-17] **

**tigersilver**

**Summary:**

This would be the 'naughty' that NC-17 refers to. All the other is but smoke-and-mirrors and cloud castles only.

**Work Text:**

Hmm...well. See, it's like this: I can't count?

(Preface: I_ lied_)

**VII** (This is of course _plus two_, because for dramatic effect I couldn't manage to stuff the naughty bits into just the five or six bits, sorry, and I did decide on a whim to hand this collection of strung-together drabbles the NC-17 rating. Rather wrote myself into a corner on that end. Oh, yes. I AM a dilettante, did I mention?)

Xxx

John's _warm_—first thing Sherlock _feels_. John's wet: second. Narrow red tongue in motion and sloppy here and there, skittering across Sherlock's rising throat, shoulder, lips; residual dampness on skin rubbing; hair dripping, so cold on the steamy hot skin Sherlock's wearing—so cold it_ burns_. And John's quite fit, which is brilliant. Just heavy enough to be solidly convincing, actually. Their bodies collide moist and delicious on the horizontal as John essentially flings himself onto his occupied bed and all across the occupier like a shock blanket. He can't quite cover all of his willing conquest, of course, but one can tell he's rather desperately and intently trying, what with hands, mouth, scrabbling knees on the coverlet for purchase, flapping elbows and curling, flexing feet.

Sherlock reciprocates but his primary object is to hold the fuck onto John and to thrust. Like a piston pump he does so: up, down, up, down, undulating until he loses all patience and simply clamps John's shifting pelvis within his own straining thighs, immobilizing him. There's stray cloth in the way (pants, robe belt) but John instantly gets with the plan, settling into place and shoving in return, localizing the exquisite torment. The pressure trapped between their miraculously matched-up groins is enormous and Sherlock is struck by the insistent idea that if he doesn't ejaculate _right now_ it is entirely possible his head will explode.

The swivel-thrust-shove action is spectacularly compelling, though. He hardly wants to give it up.

He does come, at last—what? It's been all of a minute, maybe two?—jaw dropping open under John's frantic licks and nips, and then enters straight into a full-body rictus of relief, eyes wide open, lips parted, not breathing in the least. Heart stuttering and ears full of blessed white noise. He's light as thistle silk upon an ocean of sensate pleasure; he's all he's ever understood of godhead, incandescent. John follows him a split-second later, his brilliantly scarlet-purple cock throbbing and spending itself in jerks and jets all over Sherlock's half-naked belly.

Sherlock's robe and tugged-down pants (John's pants, really, borrowed and dusty-musty) constrict him, pinging faint upon his returning conciousness; he could scarcely care less for _that_. There's enough contact between him and John finally, finally, and the walls they've built up individually are now all of a piece, decidedly, cemented permanently with bodily fluids. It's only blood they've not mingled yet but that will come soon enough, he's sure. He's got a whole network, a webbing, of future love bites mapped out in his mind's eye, all intended to brand John as indelibly, utterly Sherlock's. Still, it's all…beyond good, for a beginning. So far from 'not good' it's in another universe completely.

"Sherlock…" John murmurs, mouthing at his new lover's nipple. His eyes are closed in peaceful bliss. "Sherlock."

"John."

"Mmmm."

With the first bout of insanity out of the way, Sherlock sighs, deflating almost to utter flatness, and John groans softly against Sherlock's rapidly rising chest, clutching at him and wriggling about in the slop of their mutual passion to find a more comfortable position. The detective is certain he'll be bruising black-blue-green-yellow where John's fingertips have him pinned and he's quite gleeful. He wants the marks. The reminders.

"Oh, god."

He wants them.

After a moment his dick perks up and sends a pang straight to his old brain. He's recalling the unfortunate state of his poor, sad-sack bollocks these last months, how they seemed to be always taut and swollen. How unpleasant it is to walk about forever anxious someone will notice his tumid state. A Holmes randy, like a gauche schoolboy: unthinkable! But true. Still, even now, there's so much still pent up within him; he's likely to expire if he gets no relief.

A glance down at John's hooded eyelids and his swollen mouth reassures him.

"Please," he says, and rolls over, reaching for John with every digit, every part. "Please, John."

"…How?" John folds himself into the length of sticky, sweaty Sherlock as though he was specifically constructed to fit. "Ah…Sherlock?"

"Any way you want," Sherlock replies, though he's already sucking on his own two fingers, preparing, and thus mumbles the rest: "Anghyyy h'way at'all, Johnghn."

John grasps his wrist and takes it firmly, drawing it down his waist and angled hip till Sherlock's slobbered-over hand curls wetly about an exposed buttock.

"Like this, then," he directs, a hint of a growl in his voice, and Sherlock can't help but grip that sweet swell of flesh possessively and shiver. "I've never—well, I've once, a long time ago—"

"Don't tell me!" Sherlock orders sharply. "Don't, John."

He's absolutely not wanting to contemplate the possibility that John—his John—has ever been with anyone else. It's a direct contradiction of evidence, of course, but Sherlock doesn't give a flying fuck. None of the past matters; it's all smoke-and-mirrors, confusing him. What's imperative is this moment now and during this moment John Watson is his and only ever his. He won't tolerate any other present or future. And the past can very well go hang itself, for all the good it's done him. This now is brilliant; ever so much the better than ever before.

"Right," John nods, agreeably, "okay, so…? Will you, erm, do the honours, then?"

With infinite care he coaxes Sherlock's still-damp fingers off his family jewels and nudges them in the direction of his arsehole. Sherlock goes with the flow joyfully and can't help but stifle John with a furiously happy kiss as he gropes, one that seems to last a full century. He starts a slow thrust and shove as he snogs, poking a cautious saliva'd fingertip into John's sphincter. The resultant moan lends him a massive amount of confidence.

As if he didn't know already; as if it weren't clear as day John is willing. Ready and able, too. _Brilliant!_ Sherlock's brain sings. _Sodding brilliant_.

_This is glory_, Sherlock thinks a fractured moment, and then ceases with the discrete thinking, really. He's rigid again, like the blunt nose of John's gun, and John's just as excited, uttering encouragement into the hollow between his collarbone and his ear.

"Come on, that's it," he mutters, pushing his arse against Sherlock's dancing fingers, enticing. "Come on, come on—more!"

"Protection," Sherlock interjects, all at once recalling he's a gentleman and not just a mass of needy flesh pushing forward to culmination. "John," he adds, insistently, when John only rocks and yawls against him, not responding. "John, I can't simply—we mustn't."

"Right, yeah, okay," John answers on a ragged breath, shuddering as he lunges back and away. "Fine. Wait—"

There's a moment of confused motion whilst he reaches behind and beneath for the packets of supplies Sherlock brought along with him at the start of this endeavour.

"Here! Here…this…oh! and this," John mumbles happily, shoving painfully sharp-edged little boxes at Sherlock's pressing breastbone. "Sherlock!" he whines unhappily when it's all not immediately happening and then begins the unwrapping and uncapping process even as he twines a blond-furred leg 'round Sherlock's tipped hipbone as it pulses against his flank. "Sherlock, _now_. Do it!"

"Have to—must—yesss!" Sherlock's in full agreement. 'Now' is best.

They've not stopped moving against each other since they got their breath back, not since they came to a mutual tacit agreement that penetration was the next logical step to take. Since they've bonded, really, and Sherlock's half out of his mind or more with plain old desire. John's wild gaze betrays the same. The vision of John in that amazing state gives Sherlock just enough patience to stop what he's been doing and pay attention to the products.

He needs them, the way John requires tea of a morning. He doesn't want them necessarily but it's all he can do to protect John right now. And John deserves every smidgeon of care Sherlock can summon.

Together, they manage to open and apply all the necessities: sheath, lube, more lube—half a tube of it. Sherlock's shorts come all the way off, as does his stained satin wrapper. The duvet's kicked off the bed summarily, along with the rest of the items Sherlock stocked up on at the corner chemist's. It's all systems go at last.

"Oh…fuck," Sherlock mouths silently, his cock poised at the brink and John gripping his shoulders so fiercely his nails scrape and gouge half-moons. "Oh, John!"

"Oh-my-gawd!" John pants and he's on his back, legs spread wider that any man with a nonexistent leg injury should be able to manage. "Oh, Sherlock, yes—please!"

Sherlock cups John's buttocks, spreading them wide till his dimpled crack almost flattens, and proceeds to jab wildly, his eyes rolling back in his head. He can't process anything other than _need-need-need_ and that's his blood screaming high like tension wires in the wind. John's little noises are pure unadulterated heaven. Sex on a stick—the bomb.

"God—fucking—damn!" he grits. "In you; I'm_** in**_ you, John! Bloody FUCK!"

As if this was earth-shattering progress and a giant leap forward for humanity. 'Course, for Sherlock, it is. John naturally chooses that moment to spoil it, giddily facetious.

"P-P-Potty mouth!"He flashes a dazzling white half-grin and giggles breathlessly. "Sherlock's a potty mou—"

"Shut it, John!" He's charmed, though. Quite.

"Ma-make me, then. _Sherlock_."

John's ticklish or perhaps simply oxygen-deprived. It's inane that he's laughing even when gasping; so silly, Sherlock loves it, nonsense that it is. But by fuck, he's no time for pointless chatter. Not_ now_.

"Hah! Ahah! Bloody! Just—just—_in_, let me in."

He is in. That doesn't seem to matter. He craves farther in.

"…righ—" John's frantic agreement is eaten up by a gurgle. "—kay!"

It's quite possibly the best sound in the world.

"—ck!" Sherlock can't inhale, can't exhale. Can't do anything but dive and withdraw, drive and reverse. Quick-step, double-time, all that jazz—oh!

"Agh!"

There's nothing better than a hot willing man and a cock to go in him, primed and fully loaded. The jabs become measured shoves, and then transmute into a slightly jerky but still awesome form of horizontal tango.

"Nnn…mmah!" John burbles. He's a wonder wall. Sherlock can't get enough.

"Good?" He chomps out, catching himself on the cusp and willing his dick to be reasonable and not simply go off like a firework in John's arse. This is, after all, _his_ area and he's determined to be fucking brilliant at it. "Al—alright, J-John?"

"Yes," John moans faintly, rolling his head across the pillows. "—sss!" Neither of them can keep hold of their breath but then breathing is _boring_. "Ah—ah—ah!—that's it." He flaps an aimless hand and then returns it instantly to Sherlock's sweat-slick ribcage. Squeezes in wordless appreciation; clenches his insides as well, to excellent effect. "Thass'it…ah, thasss…it.."

That _is _it, incidentally. Sherlock would've liked to have had more control-make it last longer—but it's been a long time. It's been 'never', when one realizes this is fornication with the man he adores.

This time he's present and alert for every single solitary nanosecond and there's never been anything like. The hiss in his ears is enervating and exhilarating at the same time. John's face in mid-orgasm is all he's ever never known till recently he's wanted. Needed.

They both blank out for a bit, which is totally understandable: dehydration.

As for talking it out, they don't. Full stop. John, the one who always wants answers, explanations and so forth and Sherlock, the one who is very secretly pleased to explain himself whenever John wants, they are both…silent. As tombs. They simply shag—daily, often, nightly, regularly, as much as they both can stand.

It's only when they are returned to 221B Baker Street, some weeks later, Moriarity's lot essentially stifled and swept up, that Sherlock comes across a book of poetry mixed in with John's copies of Kipling and Grisham, medical journals and completed acrostics. It's a slim volume, well-worn, and there's a paper scrap marked with a scrawling 'S' and a note that that might read 'Show him':

' **He drew a circle that shut me out —  
>Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.<br>But Love and I had the wit to win:  
>We drew a circle that took him in.'<strong>

…"Outwitted", Edwin Markham

Finite.

_PS, I am also a sop; can you tell? Sorry for the non-beta and weird-arse accent. I'm a mongrel and I speak in Tiger-tongues only. Hee!_


End file.
